


Practice. Perfect.

by Mix Stitch (Synph)



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Modeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/pseuds/Mix%20Stitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agreeing to be a life drawing model for Captain America of all people is not Peter’s best idea. But it all works out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice. Perfect.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Birdbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/gifts).



> This is for Jill's birthday because she's one of my best friends in the world and I love her to bits. (Happy birthday, bb!)
> 
> This is set a little while after the events in Avenging Spider-Man #5.

Captain America has a room in the Avengers Mansion that looks like something from a home décor catalog --from the _fifties_.

Steve Rogers has a tiny apartment in Brooklyn that looks as though it’s slowly being eaten alive by art supplies and books and bits of electronics that could almost put Tony’s lab to shame.

It’s small.

It’s messy.

It’s nice.

It’s... really easy for Peter to get distracted and walk right into Steve’s broad back when they’re only a foot or two from the front door in the cramped little entryway.

Peter bounces backward on impact, feeling his nose smart and sting for a moment. Walking into Steve is like walking into a brick wall --a very warm and very attractive brick wall, but a wall nonetheless-- and Peter feels embarrassment warm his cheeks. Peter backs up until his back hits the front door and then flinches when Steve turns around and looks at him with one blond brow raised in question.

“My bad,” Peter blurts out, lifting his hands in surrender. “I was just--” Looking around for signs of Captain America in the apartment. Busy staring at the old paintings hanging up on the walls of the apartment. Trying hard _not_ to stare at Steve’s (gorgeous) ass. Peter can’t imagine that saying any of those answers out loud would end well and so he settles for finishing his sentence with a breathless murmur of, “just... not looking where I was going.”

He offers Steve a smile that feels a little wobbly and then narrows his eyes at the taller man. “I didn’t hurt you or anything did I, big guy?” Peter puts his hands on his hips and gives Steve a lingering onceover that isn’t even _close_ to professional. “I don’t know how I could, but--”

Steve laughs. He honest-to-goodness _laughs_ at Peter as they stand in the cramped entryway of his apartment. “You’re kidding right,” Steve says after a second with a crooked little smile remaining as proof of his amusement. “Unless your face is made out of Vibranium, I’m sure I’ll be fine. How’s your nose?”

“I’m fine,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose for effect before he offers Steve a bright smile. “Don’t worry; my pretty face is still intact.”

Before the silence between them can get awkward --or really, even more awkward--, Peter pushes forward, squeezing past Steve in the hallway so that he can get into the main room that’s doing triple duty as a living room, dining room, _and_ an impromptu art studio. Halfway past the couch that takes up one entire wall all on its own, Peter spins around and puts his hands on his hips. “Aren’t you going to give me the grand tour?”

Still smiling, Steve picks his way through the mess on the floor of his apartment until he can stand next to Peter and waves one big hand in an all-encompassing gesture that takes in the entire front room. “It’s not a very big apartment, Pete.”

“I still want a tour,” Peter chirps, grinning when the man in front of him rolls his eyes. “I’m your guest after all!” Peter whips his knapsack off and then drops on a clear space near the back end of the couch. “Come on, Cap. You should give me a tour before you paint me like one of your French girls.”

Steve’s eyebrow seems permanently stuck in an upright position, but he decides to humor Peter for the moment. Steve motions toward the right side of the small apartment where a gray refrigerator is busy humming away. “That’s the kitchen,” Steve says in a droll tone, “The bathroom is over to the left down that hallway and so’s the bedroom.”

Peter blinks twice, not getting why Steve is making a point out of mentioning the bathroom in his apartment. “The bedroom,” he repeats a second later with a questioning lilt to his voice.

“You can change out here if you want,” Steve says when Peter continues to stand there and gawp at him. “But there’s a bathrobe on my bed so you don’t get cold while you’re modeling for me. I thought it’d make you feel more comfortable.” Steve smiles again when Peter starts fidgeting and makes a visible effort to keep from simply taking hold of Peter’s arm and leading him in the bedroom. “You do know that I won’t make you pose in the nude if you don’t really want to... Right? Your Spider-Man suit would work too.”

Some part of Peter’s brain tells him to say okay and go change into his suit in the bedroom. Since that’s the part that also wants him to run away screaming before he clues Steve into the crush he’s been nursing since _preschool_...

Peter makes himself ignore it. He shrugs once, wincing internally for the tension he feels in his own shoulders, and then starts heading in the direction of the bedroom.  

Halfway down the hall, Peter pauses and turns so that he can glance at where Steve is still standing in the center of the room. “You’re not making me do anything, you know,” Peter says, voice soft because maybe Steve _doesn’t_ know that. “I want to help and besides, how else are you going to get the hang of dealing with anatomy without my help?” Peter grins once and then ducks into the bedroom before he can hear Steve’s reply.

\-----

Fifteen minutes later, Peter finally manages to make himself leave Steve’s bedroom.

Steve’s blue bathrobe is _huge_ on him.

Peter is average, okay... a little under average, for his age, but Steve has several inches on him and that’s not even the end of it. Not only is Steve tall enough that the low doorways in his apartment look like they’d practically decapitate him if he didn’t duck his head, but the big lug probably weighs as much as two Peters combined. Fittingly, his bathrobe hangs off of Peter as though he’s a child playing dress up and since there isn’t a belt in sight, that means that Peter has to clutch at the front of it to keep it closed.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mister Rogers,” Peter calls out in an affected old-Hollywood drawl, voice coming out loud even though the apartment is the approximate size of a postage stamp --from the thirties. He wraps the huge bathrobe more securely around his body and then rolls the sleeves back until he can see his hands. “Are you ready to get to work?”

From the living room comes a distracted noise of agreement and Peter follows the sound to where Steve stands close to the wall opposite the massive couch in his main room, setting his supplies on a rickety barstool in front of an easel. Peter’s mouth is already open, ready to fire off one ill-timed quip or another, but when he sees Steve --or rather, what Steve is wearing--, he gulps audibly and fists his fingers in the front of his robe.

Steve is... Steve is something else.

A paint-smeared undershirt that is a long way from white barely does a thing to cover up Steve’s muscular arms. The shirt strains over Steve’s broad chest and draws Peter’s attention to the press of his pectorals against the front of the thin fabric. There’s a single smear of faded blue paint curving just underneath where Steve’s left nipple probably is and Peter swears that he’s never been more jealous of dried paint in his _life_.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t even make it to ogle the rest of Steve--

Polite to a fault, Steve clears his throat instead of pointing out that Peter is just standing there and staring. “Could you sit over there for me,” Steve asks, pointing at a high-backed barstool sitting in a small patch of carpet just barely visible amidst the mess. “We’ll do some sketches in the big chair next, but I think we should do it like this for now.”

Steve waits patiently until Peter makes it to the little square of carpet and gets one foot on the bottom run before he decides to continue speaking. “Are you going to take the robe off?”

Peter freezes, feeling like a startled deer as his fingers flex around the front of his borrowed robe. “N-now?”

“If you’re still not comfortable,” Steve says slowly, eyes narrowing as he takes in the way that Peter bounces with nervous energy in front of him. “I can always ask someone else. You’re the reason why I’m back doing _this_ \--” And when Peter follows Steve’s gaze around the messy room with its cover furniture and the half-finished canvases turned towards the walls, he starts to understand. “It didn’t feel right to go get someone else to model for me.”

The borrowed bathrobe hits the floor with a heavier thud than Peter was expecting. It’s something, standing in front of one of his childhood heroes in skin and skin alone, but Peter tries to push past it as he makes himself good and comfortable in his seat. After all, Steve has seen him at his actual worst. Hell, the man has carried Peter away from battles, heedless of the fact that he was getting another person’s blood on his costume.

A little nudity between friends? It shouldn’t be a big deal.

And at first, it isn’t.

Steve doesn’t ask much from Peter. He sketches in silence, pencil tip scratching over the clean pages of his pad while glancing at him every so often to check the positioning of whatever part of Peter’s body that he’s focused on now. It’s so easy as to be boring and Peter finds himself nodding off while Steve draws, resting the side of his face on his arm and doing his best to melt into the chair.

In Peter’s defense, he’s had a really long day.

Time passes, Peter doesn’t know how much.

Normally he’s the world’s lightest sleeper, often waking up clinging to the ceiling by his fingertips after the slightest noise outside his room wakes him. This time however, when Peter feels a big, _warm_ hand curling around the top of one of his arms, he doesn’t immediately bolt and do his best impression of a startled spider. He opens his eyes slowly and then immediately shuts them after seeing Steve’s brilliant blue eyes so close to his face.

“Steve,” Peter says without opening his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” When the shadow of Steve’s big body moves away, Peter sits up and tries to reclaim some sort of control over the situation. “Did I mess you up?”

Steve shakes his head and makes a soft noise of dissent over his shoulder as he walks back to his easel. “You were tired,” he says in response, giving Peter a careful non-answer. “Besides, you don’t move much in your sleep. I got enough done.” He starts flipping through the pages of his massive drawing pad, going back to the first page before poking his head around the side. “Come see.”

Peter nearly falls getting out of the barstool. His legs threaten to give out from underneath him and he has to cling to the chair for a few seconds before the pins-and-needles sensation in his legs goes away so that he can walk. Peter makes it all of two steps in the direction of where Steve stands, body blocked by his drawing pad, before Steve pops up and makes a face at him.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm?”

Steve’s gaze slides down Peter’s body slow enough that it’s almost a physical sensation. “The robe, Peter,” he says in a suspiciously choked up voice. “Put the damn robe on.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Eep.”

Peter doesn’t even bother trying to be graceful about his frantic scramble for Steve’s bathrobe. He’s just flashed Steve -- _Captain America_ , his brain keeps helpfully reminding him-- all of his bits and it wasn’t for the sake of art. Peter wishes that he could just shrivel up and die --that’s certainly what his dick is trying to do at any rate--, but he snatches the robe up off the floor and yanks it on with far more force than is necessary and wraps it around his body until he’s covered from his neck to his ankles.

Looking over at Steve, Peter is expecting to see--

Disgust.

Discomfort.

Disappointment.

Anything but quiet amusement and something that can’t really be lust.

“What’s so funny,” Peter says, wincing a bit for the bitterness that leaches into his voice. “It’s not like I’ve done this before.” The few times that Peter and nude models were in the same room, he had been in Steve’s position and things had been even more awkward to say the least. Peter closes his eyes for a moment so that he can tell himself that Steve’s a really good guy without actually having to look at the man and then takes the return trip through piles of _stuff_.

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not laughing at you,” he says, voice earnest as though he really has to convince Peter that he’s one of the nicest guys he knows.

When Peter finally makes it to stand at Steve’s side, he’s all set to give Steve a little hell for it. And then he notices what Steve is wearing and his brain seems to short out a little in response.

“Guh,” Peter utters, fingers flexing in the soft material of Steve’s big bathrobe.

Peter's brain sets up a running commentary in his head that starts with _Look_ _at his face, look at his face_ and predictably ends with Peter doing the exact opposite. His gaze flickers over Steve's impressive torso (because how could he ignore _that_?) before fixating on the front of the other man's gray sweatpants. Those ridiculously tight sweatpants that are clinging to Steve’s--

To Steve’s--

Peter can’t even complete the thought in his head without feeling faint.

Of course, Peter runs his mouth off because some part of his brain has got to be a massive masochist.

"Holy crap," he breathes as he stares at Steve's sweatpants and the bulge pressing against the soft material. "You've got a huge--" Dick is the word that Peter wants to end his sentence with, but one look at Steve and his quirked brow and Peter shuts his mouth with a snap.

"Yes?" Steve tilts his head to the side and gives Peter an expectant look. "What is it?"

Peter feels the blood drain from his face. "What is 'what'," he asks, blinking and fidgeting as though the carpet he’s standing on will suddenly swallow him whole. 

Steve makes a little gesture that clearly means for Peter continue speaking. "What do I have that's so huge?"

Peter says the first thing that pops into his head.

"Head," he says, nearly shouting, "You've got a huge head. Yup, that's exactly what I was gonna say. Nothing else." Peter can't exactly muster a winning smile for Steve under these conditions, but he does his best. "You believe me right?" He doesn’t give the other man a chance to respond and slaps his hands over his face so that he doesn’t have to look at his childhood hero and see disappointment on his face. “I’ll go get dressed now.”

Steve presses his fingers into the bend of Peter’s elbow, holding him still and keeping him from running away. “I should have told you,” Steve says, deep voice rumbling from his chest as he stands in front of Peter until their bodies are touching. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you to be my model,” he says, shifting his grip on Peter from his elbow to his hip underneath the soft terrycloth.

“Y-you did?” Peter squeaks, face feeling hot as Steve’s big thumb strokes over his hip. “Wh-what?”

“We had our first set of figure drawing classes last week,” Steve says as he keeps up that thoroughly distracting touch to Peter’s side. “I didn’t really need to have a model to prepare --although the practice is nice. I just wanted to spend some time alone with you without interruptions. I apologize for the deceit.”

Peter licks his lips even though he knows it won’t do a thing to stop them from drying out and then tilts his head up so that he can look Steve in the eyes. His heart feels like it’s beating at twice its normal rate and when he looks at Steve, at the trepidation simmering in the blue depths of his eyes, everything starts to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges.

“Cap,” Peter says.

“Yeah, Pete.”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

With that, Peter rises onto the tips of his toes, wraps one arm around Steve’s thick neck, and plants a kiss on the other man’s surprisingly soft mouth. Steve opens his mouth to Peter almost instantly and kisses back with marked enthusiasm. His hand spasms over the side of Peter’s hip, pressing too hard at first and then easing back when Peter hisses into his mouth.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs against Peter’s mouth. “I shouldn’t--”

“It’s okay,” Peter says, but the moment stretches thin between them and threatens to shatter. He reaches for Steve again, pressing his fingers into his shoulders and trying not to drool over the fact that he’s actually getting to have one of his dreams come true. “It’s okay. You didn’t hurt me. You won’t hurt me.” He doesn’t bother saying that Steve _can’t_ hurt him, because that’d be a boldfaced lie and Peter can’t lie to Steve, not when they’re like this--

Peter shudders and then flushes when he realizes that his bathrobe has fallen open. He’s more covered up than he was when posing for Steve, but at the same time, he feels more exposed. Peter is used to blushing and feeling stripped soul-deep when he’s naked in front of the people he wants to take to bed. He blushed like this for MJ and for Harry way back when and--

Nope. Peter is so not going there.

Peter cuts those thoughts off with purpose and presses close to Steve, presses _closer_ until the other man gets the hint and dips his fingers underneath the robe. Peter sighs for the light scratch of Steve’s calluses over a few lines of scar tissue that stretch over his hip towards his back and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Steve’s strong jaw.

“Just so you know, Steve,” Peter says as he feels the other man’s penis twitch against his stomach through his sweats, “If you want to leave bruises, try leaving them somewhere where Tony won’t see to make fun of us.”

Steve smiles at him with a little crooked quick of his lips, and then kisses Peter again before pulling back and thumbing the dip of his hip on his way to cup one of Peter’s ass cheeks in one huge hand. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “No marks where your clothes don’t cover. Scout’s honor.” Steve ducks his head and then gives Peter a glimpse of this boyish grin that makes his heart melt.

Peter has to fight the urge to kiss the smile right off Steve’s handsome face. “Were you even a scout?”

Steve says no against Peter’s mouth and then kisses him again, kisses him properly with teeth and tongue until Peter can’t stop making these ridiculous breathy-hitching noises from within his throat. The kissing is so much, so good, that Peter doesn’t even register that Steve has both hands on his ass until Steve _lifts_ and Peter’s feet stop touching the ground. In the process, Steve’s sweatpants get jerked down and the bathrobe that Peter is still technically wearing isn’t doing much to cover him up either.

“Oh my god,” Peter blurts out, wrenching his mouth away from Steve’s so that he can blink down at the other man. “You just picked me up, man. Holy freaking crap!” Peter kisses Steve for that, surging up until Steve is left gripping at his thighs to hold him steady and then cupping Steve’s face in his slightly sweaty palms. He kisses Steve like he’s starving for it, like he can’t get enough of Steve’s mouth or his body or his--

Okay, so maybe Peter _can’t_ get enough of Steve. But that’s not his fault. Peter is frankly too used to being picked up and carried around by various heroes (and a few villains), but this is different. This is being carried around by someone that isn’t going to make fun of him for it later. This is Steve’s big hands on his ass and the constant nudge of his erection against his balls and Peter is so hard that he’s considering _begging_ for more.

Peter licks his way into Steve’s mouth, moaning for the way that sucking at the other man’s tongue a moment later gets him a reward in the form of Steve thrusting up against his balls as his fingers dig into his ass cheeks.

“F-fuck,” Peter gasps.

Instead of chastising Peter for cursing (as he does in many of Peter’s lingering fantasies from his youth), Steve smiles at him. Wide and wet with enough teeth visible to make Peter wriggle and entertain thoughts of being bitten, Steve’s smile is sharp and predatory. He bounces Peter again, thrusting the slick head of his penis against Peter’s shaft and balls, fucking against him until Peter groans and clutches at the back of his head.

“Say it again,” Steve growls as Peter flushes even further. He’s humping against Peter, rolling his hips in hard but controlled thrusts of his narrow hips. “Christ, Pete, just-- Just talk to me.”

Peter moans and keeps clinging to Steve. He starts babbling, words pouring from his mouth on instinct. Half of the words don’t make sense. The other half is filthy, profane to the point where Peter almost feels like he should wash his own mouth out with soap.

“Steve. Steve,” Peter pants, trying to pull away from Steve’s mouth and his body so that he can _think_. “P-put me down, big guy. Okay?”

Steve looks at Peter silently, face scrunched up with not understanding. “Put you down? Why?”

It takes a try or two, but Peter finally manages to speak his mind without stammering. “I want to suck your dick,” he says all at once, “I can’t exactly do that from up here, can I?”

There’s a second where Steve’s fingers flex over Peter’s ass and it looks as though Peter will be dry humping his way to orgasm on Steve’s stomach. But then Steve kisses him again, slow and too sweet, and sets him down on the floor.

“How do you want me?” Steve says, still managing to look in charge and in control with half of his impressive penis poking out from above the waistband of his sweats.

Peter sways a little on his feet and then backs up in the direction of the nearest wall. When his back hits the solid wall, he smiles. “Take your pants off,” Peter says, reveling in the little thrill that comes from bossing around one of the most powerful people he knows. “And then get over here and put both your hands on the wall.”

It probably only takes Steve a few seconds to strip from the waist down, but by the time he makes it over to where Peter stands with his back flat against the cool plaster, it feels like hours have passed.

“Finally,” Peter breathes, eyes zeroing in on the flushed, _wet_ tip of Steve’s penis and the drops of fluid that slick the shaft. “Hurry up and get over here.” Peter whips the bathrobe off and drops it on the floor before he gets down on his knees. He gets a split second to wince about the hard floor against his knees and then Steve is there, towering over him as his dick bobs in the cool air.

Peter looks Steve up and down as best as he can and then grins as though Christmas has come early. “Later,” he says as a rough little almost-growl makes itself present in his voice, “Later I’m going to climb you like a _tree_.”

\-----

Later, when Peter is all hoarse and shuddery from going down on Steve for like _hours_ , Steve lifts Peter again and kisses him as though he wants to lick the taste right out of his mouth.

Making out is good. Making out gives Peter a chance to suck in slow breaths and focus on something aside from the persistent throbbing of his own erection.

When Peter glances down several minutes later, Steve’s penis is already twitching and stiffening with arousal. The first time, when they were busy kissing and touching each other, Peter missed the chance to see what it looked like for Steve --big, warm, _impressive_ Steve-- to get hard for him. He curls his fingers around Steve’s shoulder and then squirms as his own body reacts to the site in front of him.

“Holy refractory period, Batman,” Peter breathes. He doesn’t even mind how shaky his voice sounds or how his jaw and throat throb with an ache as he starts to pet Steve with slow strokes from the top of his shoulders up to the nape of his neck. “I am _so_ jealous of your stamina right now.”

Steve shakes his head. “You are _so_ strange,” he says, voice light.

Peter laughs and levers himself up so that he can hook his legs around Steve’s waist and pull him in close. “Shut up and kiss me, Cap.”

Steve’s nose wrinkles with a mild frown. “You should probably stop calling me that when I'm not wearing my uniform, Peter.”

Undeterred, Peter busies himself with trying to yank Steve forward by the straps of his sweaty undershirt while saying, “There’s always next time.”


End file.
